My chin to the ardent sky. How  you  never told  me about the whiteness
of sunlight. How sunlight contains  all  colors; all  colors  mixed  up &  in
collection, appear white. How this light heavies my  eyelids, here  in  nape
of this rock formation, this  snaking  trail  in  the  valley  of a valley, desert
tongue germinates inside these jaws. How I imagine your hands in weight
upon my  shoulders,  wrists,  ankles,  jugular, drawing  blood  because you
too, contain the spikes & spines & lineage of  cacti: short growing  season,
long  dormancy; one  may  even  think  you  a  ghost, illusion of a wanting
mind,   if   these   ocular   cavities    didn't    resemble   a   blurred  &  sepia
photograph, first studied & inhaled  moth  balls & cedar chests at  the age
of sixteen. A photograph  in  mirror  of  my ridge of cheeks, slope of  nose,
square of my mandible in hold of my infant body tight to your  chest; still
a clutch  in I ncubation in your  arms. How  you  never  told  me this light
passes,  tangles  in  the  atmosphere  &  scatters. Smog & dust &  particles
reconfigure & the  blue, the  blue  in  the  light  separates  most. The  blue
hangs the sky, reminds us  of   pieces & wholes & untetherings. You never
told me. How  could  you? You  coyote, voiceless  among  the  ridge, miles
out from me, in spook  if  I draw one  step  closer. You  whose  face  floats
amid the mulberries at  twilight, as  the firefly  abdomens illuminate, then
darken, illuminate, then darken, illuminate, then darken.